Quivering Creek: Xandra's Folly

        Sometimes Xandra wondered if he could see her still, as she was before to him.

         She was never the most lithe or agile of her sisters; Kelli and Dali had always scampered up trees like they were ladders, even Aenne could walk the northern wall as straight as an arrow, even with the autumn moss thick on its slick stone. But when she went out past twilight, into the chill, it seemed her blood that of a cat rather than a young woman. She would race low along hovels, her steps silent and swift, pressed close to their walls. She would duck under stairways, vault smoothly over fence and wall, always landing sure and soft. She had not had the misfortune to be caught by the Dim yet, and she did not intend on it. She would see him. Every night, until he came to her. Until he regained his lifesight. It was possible.

         She knew it was. It had to be.

         Tonight had been the easiest. She only espied four Dimguards. Two lazing in the Centre, one at the easternmost Inn, The Dolly Droll, and one more making rounds in the south Court. She had practically walked her way to the western gate.

         Now she stood, facing the darkening woods, her pale hands resting on a splintery gate post. He would come soon.

         He always did.

         The trees leaned in to one another, exchanging secrets she could not hear. A breeze came with the evening, from the north beyond the trees and with it came a strange smell. Not putrid, but definitely queer. Like the smell behind a piece of furniture recently moved. Or an underage kept locked for years and years. The smell made Xandra afraid, but what was worse was the silence.

         The air grew still and she could feel the wind on her face, but hear it not. Sometimes her heart beat so loud she feared she would bring all the darkness unseen down upon her. After minutes passed in silence, she began to hear whispers of twigs snapping, branches scratching at something moving in the dark. Always too vague of shape to make out.

         Then she saw him.

         A shadow stepped out into the moonlight. He was naked. Pale as parchment, gaunt, gangly.

         The skin of his face was pulled tight to his skull. He stood there, watching her.

         She was two stones throw from him, the black bulwark of the forest at his back and at this distance she could see every rib, every bone.

         Though ghastly at a sight, as the minutes ticked away and the night grew ever colder, the urge to run to him was overwhelming. But the fear in her would always creep up inside her breast and lock her in place.

         What if he took her with him?

         And worse, what if she'd had a mind to go.

         The Curists said she was a fool to still linger for him. They said the only way to cleanse herself of thoughts for him was to pray. So she did.

         Every evenfall she would allow Dimguard Curtswell or Noll to lead her to the abbey and she would light a candle for him. She would pray for his soul. Pray for his passage into the peaceful permanence of the beyond. As well, she would pray for her mother and her sisters. She would thank the Shepard for the life still given to her and her family. Other smaller prayers here and there, then she would take leave. Dimguard Curtswell was kinder. He had never hurried her, never rushed her. He knew how much Goddard meant to her. Noll however would harry her into a few rushed prayers.

         “M'lady, must be off soon. The darkness swells.”

         The darkness swells, indeed. Why ought you should let me finish my prayers, fool. My poor, sweet Goddard.

         And after they left her, she'd make a farce of stepping into the hovel and blowing out the candle. She'd wait until they left and then sneak out, past them. Past the watches and the village tucking itself fearfully into cot and bed and she would stand.

         And wait.

         “Godd?” She called to him.

         Goddard. It was a holy name. A blessed name. Though it did not stop the horror from infesting him; turning him into this cold mockery before her.

         Silence.

         Unmoving, his body was like a stone, face unflinching.

         Gods, it was the same every night. How can he just stand there and say nothing?          How can he when he must surely know the dagger he twists within her heart?

         “Goddard! Say something” She could barely feel her feet on the soft, wet grass, nor the wood beneath her hands as she gripped the fence rail tight enough to whiten her knuckles.

         “Love, answer me...please!”

         His mouth twitched.

         A smile? Yes. Yes! A smile—surely!

         A memory of him in the water, waist deep in the cool crystal green of the Quivering Creek in summer. Back when he was so shy he could barely speak her name. He smiled and she went to him, naked and covering herself with her hands.

He'd smiled when he'd seen her, then went red and peered into the water, searching for courage. He hadn't needed to find any. She meant to have him. And she did that day, and every day since. Until the forest swallowed him.

         But a smile. It meant...

         But then she was running, her thoughts only of him. She did not see the pale, mottled flesh where his blood pooled closest to the surface. She only saw him opening his arms to her, not the yellow ragged nails at the ends of his outstretched fingers.

She smelled wildflowers and pocketpaws, thicket orchids and jasmine. She smelled the summer and his neck, his hair and his breath.

         It was always summer where he was. In the forest.

         And he was smiling, wide enough to run into. But his teeth...

         Her heels bit into the grass and she stumbled.

         His teeth. His flesh. She was a fool.

         Gods, I am his now. Please no pain. Pl--

         And then his claws dug into her shoulders as he wrenched her standing.

She screamed loud enough to break her voice, a squeak trailed into the night. He was horrible.

         It is not him. They were all right. Clerics, mother, everyone. He's an abomination.

         She opened her mouth to speak but only managed to weep. Her privates ran wet and warm down her trembling thighs.

         It will hurt. My soul will die slowly in his eyes.

         Black eyes. Only black. Twin pools of tar.

         He bared his teeth, pearl-white and sharp as fangs. She saw his tongue was shriveled, black as a burnt sausage.

         A foulness came then and she gagged. Her eyes closed as her stomach roiled. She prepared herself for the pain. The neck. My lifeblood, or maybe the breast. But the pain did not come from either. Her stomach took a sudden ache.

         He wants the babe!

         Mornesick for a month and she hadn't even thought twice about it before she ran like a fool to the monster she once loved.

         She dared to look down and saw that an arrow had grown out of his gullet. The arrowhead had pierced her after it punched through his belly, but it had not stuck.

         Holding her wound tight, she stumbled back, away from the thing she'd known as Goddard. He turned as well. She saw the arrow had run him through, but his face bared no hint of pain. Anger etched itself across his brow in a twitch of muscle.

         Dimguard Noll was mid-notch by the fence, his eyes wide as saucers. He yawed back, but the notch was weak. He was making a muckery of his aim too, she saw.

         Goddard moved too quick to describe. Standing over her one moment, the next he'd had Noll by the throat. She saw his feet leave the ground, kicking wildly as Goddard lifted him up. She could hear the sounds in his throat. Little bones breaking, then a wet, thick snap. Goddard threw him to the ground, the man's neck a ruin. He stood over him a moment longer then wrenched the arrow through his belly, taking a good portion of his wormy innards with it. They clung to the arrowhead, black and slick in the moonlight. He turned towards her again.

         And this time he did smile.

         And Xandra screamed.